Data Collection, or alternatively, Eureka
by morning-in-mei
Summary: Szayel Apollo Grantz turns an inquiring mind to unpioneered territory. Szayel/Grimmjow, yaoi-saturated one-shot, and many things of a dubious nature. A follow-up of sorts to "Can't Have Everything," but also works as a stand-alone read.


A smug smile stretches across the scientist's features as he admires his latest creation. It's perfect, absolutely perfect, and Szayel Apollo Grantz, Octava Espada, is of the humble opinion that he has every reason to be proud of himself.

His other doll puppets have been crude, hastily assembled parodies of their corresponding subjects, quality and aesthetics sacrificed in favor of efficiency. These are the most practical for use in _combat_ -- Szayel wrinkles his nose disdainfully at the word he usually equates with _a dreadful waste of my time_ -- and they cover only the bare bones of physical manipulation. Tangle a tendon or two here, tweak a vital organ there, and Szayel is already bored out of his mind from the tedium of it all.

Not this one, though. This one is sure to be _fascinating_. Szayel traces a finger lovingly over the tiny, perfectly proportioned limbs and the miniature hollow hole, no wider than a coin, in the center of the doll's abdomen. He props it into a sitting position on his palm and gazes fondly into bright, button-blue eyes. He brings it closer to his face and blows gently to ruffle the little loose strands of hair resting on its forehead, and chuckles to himself delightedly as he murmurs a sing-song greeting.

"Why, good morning, Grimmjow. Having an agreeable start to your day?" The very same words he spoke to the real thing, just the previous morning, placing a companionable hand on his shoulder as they stood to adjourn the Espada meeting and letting the smallest portion of that spiking reiatsu twine around his fingers. Grimmjow shook him off with an odd look and an unpleasant word (which Szayel mentally dismissed so quickly that he can't quite recall what it was anymore), then aimed a forceful kick at Stark's chair and told him to quit napping and hurry the fuck up already.

Not the most refined one, that Number Six. But he is most certainly a pleasure to look at, and laughably easy to read, and Szayel couldn't think of a better test subject to play with.

He's run through these experiments countless times already, of course, with hollows and shinigami and human souls alike. It has necessitated the occasional "unauthorized" excursion, though Szayel has recognized that the living world is a cruel place -- not all that much better than Hueco Mundo itself -- and knows that a handful of wandering, woebegone spirits and the odd rookie from Soul Society will hardly even be missed. And really, it's all entirely justified for the sake of the most cutting-edge research. Simple data collection, as he sees it.

And this is data collection, too. Naturally.

Szayel sets the doll on the table and draws a small, neatly labeled flask from among the orderly rows of laboratory equipment. He briskly removes the stopper and allows the minuscule tangles of reiatsu to spider up his fingers, where they crackle and flare disagreeably and refuse to blend with his own. And then he places his fingers against the doll's forehead, creased in a familiar miniature scowl, and his own face is smiling widely again as the reiatsu leaps like a current from one surface to the other, anchoring itself in the empty vessel and seeping steadily into its core.

***

Grimmjow is sound asleep on his bed, and fully intends to stay that way for at least another few hours, when a jarring tremor runs through his body and it suddenly doesn't seem to belong to him anymore.

He twists around and makes the inarticulate grumbling of the unwillingly awakened, even less intelligible because of the way it is muffled against the pillow, then grudgingly opens his eyes and squints irritably into the dimness of his room. ... What the hell was that? A dream? A fucking _earthquake?_ He snorts to himself, but no matter how long he continues to glower at the wall, the disoriented feeling doesn't subside, and nothing else happens, either.

A few moments longer, and Grimmjow is about to mutter a curse at nothing in particular and slump back into dream-free, earthquake-free sleep, when the sensation of hands running smoothly over his skin, moving up and down and all over his torso, has his eyes flying open again and his body bolting upright.

What. The. _Fuck._

His eyes dart down and behind as his arms lash out and search the air around him, and his every sense is on edge and probing for another presence in the room. But there is nothing, and all Grimmjow hears are the sharp exhales of his own warily quickening breath.

The touches return, warmer, firmer, and Grimmjow can only stare in angry bewilderment as _nothing_ teases a circle about his hollow hole and ventures around to stroke his lower back, making his stomach muscles tense and the fine hairs rise on the back of his neck.

His mind is racing in a confused panic now as the invisible hands -- are they even hands?? -- begin to massage their way lower, seemingly unhindered by any clothing in their path. Grimmjow has never been a morning person (insofar as Hueco Mundo has "mornings" at all), but shit, if only he were a little less off kilter and a little more awake and could just _think_, goddammit, think and get some sort of handle on what is happening to him. And so he tries to ignore the unabating touches, fights back the persistent feeling that his body is dangerously off balance, and pushes himself up and off the bed.

***

Szayel is being hard pressed to hold back his amusement and maintain a professional, disinterested demeanor as he observes Grimmjow's increasing confusion from several different angles -- a continuous feed from the surveillance cameras positioned discreetly in every room within Las Noches.

"Now, now," he tsks as he watches Grimmjow start to stumble his way towards the door. "I'm hardly finished with you yet."

His left hand continues to caress the doll's form as his right hovers over the small, colorful heap of replica organs and internal anatomy -- removed from the doll beforehand for sheer convenience's sake -- and selects a tiny, spongy, nut-like shape from the pile. On its side is a word traced in compact, nearly microscopic writing: _Próstata_.

Holding it up to the cold illumination of laboratory light panels, Szayel takes a moment to let his own anticipation build. Then his gaze returns to the central monitor, and he notices that Grimmjow has finally found his feet and is reaching with one hand for the closed door. His eyes remain fixed upon the screen, and his fingers close gently around the miniature prostate gland, and _squeeze._

***

Grimmjow's hand is already on the door and groping for the doorknob when the bolt of blinding pleasure hits him hard and lances straight to his groin. A strangled _unnngh_ noise is wrenched from his throat as his legs buckle beneath him and he falls gasping to his knees, nails leaving five deeply-gouged trails in their wake as his fingers involuntarily curl and drag down the length of the door.

Fuck, oh fuck, _breathe_, and he's blinking against the black and white starbursts still blooming behind his shaking vision. Something inside him is pressed again, and another wave of pleasure rolls through him, then another, and he can hardly believe the desperate sounds that are pushing past his own mouth now as his cock goes painfully hard within seconds and his body curls in on itself, wound too tight and trying in vain to escape from the overwhelming excess of sensation. _This isn't happening_, he screams in his mind, already going hazy with arousal. _This shit can't be happening, this is fucking unbelievable_, and his inner ragings carry on as, with much effort, he unclenches one hand and stretches it forward in another trembling attempt for the doorknob.

***

"My _God_, you're stubborn," Szayel sighs with faint annoyance, continuing to knead the miniature gland between two fingers, and reaches with his other hand to deftly tap out a rapid sequence of keys. An illuminated grid springs into existence on the flat, cleared surface beneath the doll, glowing a dull, artificial blue-green. It shifts and reassembles, mapping out the dimensions of Grimmjow's quarters and then matching them coordinate for coordinate. A line of light scans over the doll as well, adjusting the grid's position underneath it until it corresponds exactly to the real Grimmjow's placement in the room.

Grimmjow's hand is at point L-5 -- ah, no, L-3 now; for someone so muddled and aroused and so recently addled by sleep, he certainly moves quickly enough. Szayel shakes his head, half in admiration and half in humorous exasperation, and then he takes hold of the doll puppet's thin little ankles and pulls it back and inwards to point K-32.

***

A sudden solid grip around his lower legs gives Grimmjow a split-second warning of what is to come, and a half-hissed "Shi--" is all the exclamation he manages to get out before he is abruptly dragged backwards, the friction a searing burn across his palms and cloth-covered knees as they scrape along the hard stone floor. No sooner has the backward pull ceased than Grimmjow is scrambling to push himself up again, but the unseen grip shifts to his wrists and yanks them unforgivingly behind his back until the bones and tendons in his arms are strained and sharply aching in protest. His balance gone, Grimmjow barely manages to twist around enough to land on his shoulder as he falls forward, one side of his face pressed against the cold ground and his ass tilted humiliatingly up in the air. He snarls helplessly as he feels his face heat and the sweat drip slowly down his back towards his neck. The groping touches are back and exploring with more galling audacity than ever, and Grimmjow groans as they slide at once across his collarbone and beneath his hakama without pause, wondering how much longer this is going to drag on.

***

Szayel, meanwhile, has found an imperfection in his otherwise lovely little facsimile, and he is considerably displeased about it.

_No nipples_, he mutters with self-directed scorn. _I remember to give it an anus, a rectum and even a penis, but of course I would forget the nipples._

But it is a small matter, a mostly insignificant hitch thus far in an experiment that is otherwise proceeding as a glowing success. He temporarily disables the grid and picks up the doll again, hooking a finger around the tiny black waistband and tugging downward to give the exposed model penis a playful lick, and smirks when he hears Grimmjow moan in response, the reluctant sound carrying over loud and clear through the audio channels.

To compensate for the tiny flaw in his delightful creation, Szayel decides to do a bit of improvising now. His eyes roam thoughtfully over the rows of apparatuses and glassware and alight on a tall open jar that holds a number of long, narrow glass stirring rods. He delicately draws a few of them out and examines them closely, and then his lips curve up into the biggest grin yet as the deliciously perverse idea sparks and takes rapid form in his brain.

***

Grimmjow's head is still reeling from the pleasurable shock of the heated, textured moistness that had just unexpectedly engulfed his cock, only to pull away just as quickly. At first, he doesn't even feel the blunt pressure just outside his anus, too preoccupied with simply trying to regain his bearings. That plan goes swiftly out the window when the pressure increases and suddenly pushes in, his spine curving and going rigid as the hard, slippery object slides smoothly in and penetrates deep. It probes around inside him momentarily, then gives a few tentative thrusts, moving a little bit further in each time. Panting and sweating against the ground, Grimmjow can't decide whether to be outraged or even more turned on, or perhaps even puzzled by the fact that he can be experiencing something like this despite the fabric of his hakama still covering his ass and legs. Finding to his surprise that his arms are now free to move again, he automatically reaches backward to pull whatever it is out of his asshole. His hands close around nothingness, of course, and he makes a noise of frustration through gritted teeth, shifting and writhing futilely to find a position that might rid him of the nonexistent penetrator, shuddering with each movement that shifts it around within him.

He is in mid-roll onto his side when the second object presses inside, squeezing past his clamping opening and spreading him farther apart. A string of curses bursts from his mouth, and he slams his fists uselessly against the unyielding floor. It hurts like hell and it feels so fucking good, and then Grimmjow is raggedly gasping, his disbelief now complete, as a _third_ length forces its way in to join the first two, lodged firmly alongside each other inside his rectum.

Oh God, oh _fuck_, it's too much, he's too full, and so when he feels the trickle of viscous liquid sliding down his crack, he thinks at first that it must be blood, and feels an irrational, hysterical urge to laugh. _I've torn_, and the laughter gets caught halfway out of his throat. _That's great, that's fucking phenomenal. I've torn around a crapload of invisible fuck-toys, and now I'm bleeding out of my ass._

He is only more nonplussed, then, when he twists his head back to look and sees no stains of red, when he fumblingly pushes down his hakama, reaches a hand around to touch, and brings it back dry. The liquid sensation is still there though, and it seems to have run inwards to coat the objects inside him, because they feel slicker now and a little bit oily against his inner walls.

Grimmjow has never felt so overwhelmingly stretched before in his life. Lying sprawled on his stomach, breathing hard against the stone of the floor, pre-cum leaking in thick, slow drops from the tip of his throbbing cock, Grimmjow silently hopes that the strange, unseen objects will pull out soon and leave him be, or at least that they will stay motionless within him. He doesn't know if he'll be able to handle it if they start moving; he doesn't want to find out what will happen if he can't.

And then they _do_ begin to move inside him. All three at once.

Grimmjow's mind goes numb. Vaguely, as if from a distance, he hears himself screaming uncontrollably, voice rough-edged and raw. The long, hard objects are thrusting in and out together, but slightly out of sync, and he can feel each one rubbing against a distinct section of his passage. They are equal in the battering force of their thrusts, however, all three ramming home with savage regularity, impaling him fast and hard and then with agonizingly slowness, and Grimmjow's body is squirming desperately on the ground.

It is at this point in time that Grimmjow feels his sanity slip down a decisive notch, and his each and every thought evaporates to be replaced with the blind need to come, to come NOW. It is at this point that a voice in his mind says, _Fuck this, just fuck it all_, and his own hand wraps around his cock and begins to quickly, erratically pump.

He is orgasming in under a minute, bucking and jerking and spilling his cum in sticky white streaks all over his sliding fingers and across the floor. The thrusts give no pause at all -- in fact, they seem to be speeding up, going impossibly deeper -- and Grimmjow bites his lip bloody to hold back a despairing moan as one of the objects strokes his prostate repeatedly, and his penis begins to grow hard again.

Forced up to orgasm, Grimmjow comes at least four times more. He is already losing track after the third one, his mind clouding with bewilderment and exhaustion, his focus narrowing to encompass little more than the pounding lengths inside his asshole and the steady build of release inside his cock.

At last, sweat-drenched and spent and collapsed bonelessly onto the ground, teetering on the border of weary unconsciousness, Grimmjow feels the invisible objects pull slowly out of him, slipping from his sore anus one by one. There is saliva pooling at the corner of his lips, and his semen is sticky and warm on the ground pressed against his belly, but he is too drained to do anything about either. He makes one last tired effort to look behind him, although he already knows that there will be nothing for him to see. But he doesn't even manage to lift his head up before his eyelids sink heavily downwards, and he effectively blacks out on the floor of his own room.

***

Szayel is using a cloth to carefully wipe the three stirring rods clean of any traces of oil on their blunt, polished tips. He looks over at the other table as he does so, where the doll is lying, naked and flopped rather forlornly on its stomach, a slightly glistening smear of the clear substance still dribbling from the opening in its small, bared rear.

The thin, clustered wisps of Grimmjow's reiatsu are used up and gone, dissipating into nothingness after being removed from their source for too long of a period.

Szayel had been scribbling down a few scattered notes in the beginning, though he couldn't be bothered to write anymore once the show turned far too interesting to look away from. It doesn't matter, though; he doesn't really need them. He doesn't have to read them to know that this experimental run was a brilliant success, a triumph, one that he can only hope to replicate in future trial attempts.

He cleans up the doll almost tenderly, replaces the handful of tiny organs inside it, and stows it away in the safe recesses of a lab drawer. Then he proceeds to straighten up the rest of his work area, thoroughly and methodically, shutting off panels, returning every container to its proper place. As he is about to switch off the main monitor, he takes one last look at Grimmjow's prone, passed out form, and two faded red, roughly crescent-shaped marks at the base of his neck, partially obscured by clinging blue strands, immediately catch his notice. He zooms in and magnifies that portion of the screen, and his eyes widen in surprise behind his glasses. The punctures are already mostly healed, but what he sees is undeniably a bite wound -- and a very recent one, at that.

Brain already working furiously, Szayel runs a quick analysis on the wound and takes down the necessary statistics: the alignment of the teeth marks, their width and spacing and estimated depth, the distance between the canines, the approximate size and shape of the upper and lower jaws ....

He will bring up the list of profiles later, and match those stats to a name and a face in his sizable database. He can't wait to confirm that someone else is screwing the Sixth Espada, and though he can't be certain until then, he already has a sneaking suspicion as to who it might be. He can't wait to sit down and have an intriguing discussion with this mystery individual, to hear another person's account of the very sort of thing he has just done to his brash-tempered and utterly clueless colleague.

And he definitely can't wait for Number Six to figure out that he is behind the events of today. Grimmjow Jaegerjaques may be violent and impulsive and have all the patience and finesse of a lit, centimeter-long dynamite fuse, but he is clever enough when it comes down to it (and provided that the hour isn't too unreasonably early), and he's sure to put two and two together soon and realize that Szayel is just the sort of twisted personality who would pull something as magnificently depraved as this.

Szayel wonders what will happen when he and Grimmjow's apparent lover meet face-to-face, each with his own dirty knowledge about their ... shared interest. Szayel wonders what will happen when Grimmjow confronts him, outraged and seething and still vividly recalling what it feels like to be fucked mercilessly into unconsciousness.

Szayel wonders what will happen, what will be done to him, and what he will do in turn, and the thoughts make him so happy that he feels practically giddy, as if he has just discovered something unimaginable -- a genuine breakthrough -- something altogether new, and quite thoroughly, sinfully, lasciviously marvelous.

~ END ~


End file.
